The night had the kind of heat that clung to the skin. The ocean wind drifted through the half-open balcony doors, but it did nothing to cool the fever crawling over my body. I could still feel his hands everywhere. My wrists. My thighs. My throat. It didn’t matter how many times I told myself this was a performance. He made it feel real.
He stood near the balcony, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The city lights spilled over his chest, drawing out every hard line of muscle. I watched him from the bed, still wearing the silk slip I’d changed into earlier. It wasn’t meant for him. But the way he looked at me made it feel like it had been.
“You’re staring,” he said without turning his head.
“You like it,” I whispered.
He smiled, a slow dangerous thing.
